


imperfections

by Graysworks



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Some Humor, Some angst, accidentally adopting a cat, blatant disregard for canon, in which Tam Fox has mysterious beef w Superboy, jaytim week; bed sharing, less plot more story, pining jason pining jason pining-, there's two (2) cats now, this is getting out of hand LOL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:57:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graysworks/pseuds/Graysworks
Summary: "So," Tim starts, pausing at the walkway's branch, fiddling with his glove. Jason recognizes the gesture after a lifetime of watching, and it means one of two things; Tim has a new injury beneath the worn leather, fading into the color of the bruised sky above them- or he's debating asking something he'll definitely regret later.That, or Jason is over-attentive to someone he claims to abhor with his whole being."Where to next?"





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> note; the story is gonna be a little different from ch4 on because I switched the direction I wanted to go w/ it so don't be alarmed.. it's all good..

Jason notices it the first, fateful afternoon- solely _because_ it's an afternoon and they're still in each others' vicinity- not the inky black of night that they so often find themselves working in, barely visible to Gotham, let alone each other.  
  
He notices because he's thinking about it -passively, always passively- and it's really the only reason he finds himself asking what the _hell_ it is.  
  
The thing about Tim.  
  
It's a flitting thought, one that solidifies uncomfortably like old mac-n-cheese, or maybe the way his last victim's brain matter had congealed on dirty red brick; and though the comparisons do nothing to resolve the issue, he entertains them a while. He doesn't want to think about the thing-about-Tim. Maybe because it's not.  
  
A Thing, that is.  
  
"Think they could fly on our diet?" Tim breaks his concentration, tossing another piece of stale bread over the wooden rail. A few ducks paddle toward the fallen morsel, pecking more at each other than the food in question. "Coffee might kill them, but decaf..."  
  
Jason rolls his eyes and reaches for some of the bread. How Tim manages to keep a loaf on hand at all times -in his suit- is a mystery, and not one he's interested in getting to the bottom of. He _thinks._  
  
No, he decides firmly, definitely not, and flicks bread into the water, where it attracts the birds like sharks to blood. "Caffeine overdosage is impossible- that's the stupidest shit I've ever heard."  
  
Tim snorts, and it should be unattractive, but Jason acknowledges the fact as he would acknowledge that the grass is green. Giving too much weight to it is dangerous, and probably a sign that he'll end up with dirt under his nails, gritty between his teeth. Dwelling is a dangerous pastime; one that pulls you against the ground with a gradual inevitability.  
  
"Fifteen years, I'll prove you wrong," Tim answers, reckless in entertaining mortality. Maybe it's why Jason craves his company above anyone else. "How about that?"  
  
"How about that," Jason echos, more to himself, throwing a spray of crumbs at him. Tim retaliates by stamping his foot, fake-whamming his head into the rail- to which Jason groans and clutches his face, unselfconscious in his melodrama. "Not the nose, you little _fucker_. Some of us want to make it past twenty-six, or didn't you know?"  
  
"Oh, I know," Tim supplies helpfully, dropping the rest of the loaf whole into the water, knocking twice on the sign that begs them not to feed the wildlife- the same sign Tim had _actually_ slammed Jason's head into, a few weeks back. It's not a memory he particularly wants to relive; nor one Tim seems particularly keen on letting him forget.  
  
"So," Tim starts, pausing at the walkway's branch, fiddling with his glove. Jason recognizes the gesture after a lifetime of watching, and it means one of two things. Tim has a new injury beneath the worn leather, fading into the color of the bruised sky above them- or he's debating asking something he'll definitely regret later.  
  
That, or Jason is over-attentive to someone he claims to abhor with his whole being.  
  
"Where to next?"  
  
Tim's not looking at Jason suddenly, even as the helmet remains firmly underneath one arm.  
  
It should be a no-brainer, really. Nearly two weeks now, and Tim hasn't failed to edge in an invitation -not once, a surprise in and of itself- after every night they pull off a good run (good meaning; all bones and intestines intact).  
  
Which is to say, all of them. They complete every mission without excessive conflict, probably because Tim is a reputable match on his own, but with Jason in the room- he's more or less unstoppable. The realization is appropriately terrifying.  
  
"Apartment," He finds himself answering, shrugging off the question, unwilling to disclose his unsettlement. That, or he's just un _nerved_. "Got some digging to do on the Valentinetti case. Heavy stuff, lots of lines on the pavement with this one."  
  
Tim scoffs, sunlight catching him when his head tilts, washing out the colors of his suit- and Jason suddenly wishes he could see his damn eyes; see how cold they could go under late autumn skies. "Send me the files, I'll have your guy in an hour."  
  
_Typical._  
  
Jason lets out a huff that's more laugh than impartial exasperation, then covers by swearing under his breath, raking a hand over an absence of stubble he already misses. It's always the little things that get under his skin, but maybe not, because Tim has already made a home burrowed there and he's not a Little Thing because he's not _A Thing._  
  
"I mean it," He mutters, disdainful in a way that's unwarranted by his current frustration. "You wouldn't be interested; just dirty cops, a couple druggies, nothing major. Gonna break it up sometime after their lottery next Tuesday- you'd do better getting on something else."  
  
Deciding the excuse fell flat -or maybe just dipped too far into genuine concern- he adds, "Fuck off, by the way. I don't want you in my ear while I spill someone's guts on my boots."  
  
"Gross." Tim's aura shifts into half disgruntlement, half dry amusement- somehow. At least it's better than the hesitant, sickeningly honest dance of his fingers around leather-clad wrists, so involuntary, so unaware of how eye drawing Jason finds the flash and bend of bone hidden below. "And thanks. You know, I was sheltered Jason, but I don't live under a _rock._ " Still, he doesn't push and Jason... is glad for it.  
  
No matter if he wants something else -anything else- he's glad for it.  
  
Change has always been a touchy subject when neither of them know where they stand.  
  
They go a few more minutes in silence, trudging along the worn path, attracting stares from pigeons and passerby. The afternoon wanes around them, night propping up like dark figures in their peripheral, a new night for crime dawning as per the usual- but it's someone else's mess for tonight, because everyone knows handling corruption at the most basic social level and traumatizing yourself in the process isn't a _full-time_ job.  
  
This is the worst part, for Jason. Easy company is hard to come by, and even harder to keep when he's tired of acting, tired of not. Tim drags out that in-between like a cavity from his lungs, and Jason's only grievance is against his own indecisiveness. If not pertaining to his theatricality, then Tim's brutal earnesty.  
  
_This_ for him is the part where the Thing winds around his shoulders like smoke, demanding to be dealt with.  
  
But they make it to the street, stare down Gotham's grotty apartment complexes and wave away exhaust fumes rather than intangible notions, and Tim still grins at him before they part ways. The final pat he lands on Jason's back lingers even as he turns to leave, and it occurs to him then;  
  
The thing about Tim is just that. It's just the Thing About Tim.  
  
Maybe it's why he's left reeling at every interaction.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> current mood of trying to keep the tonal quality of this one consistent yet realistic and fluid;
> 
> [chrissy teigan smile]

Jason decidedly does _not_ notice the Thing after that. In fact, he thinks he does a rather good job of putting it on the back-burner, letting the contents of it boil and fester over from the low heat just as easily, and by the time the Thing comes up again-  
  
Well. He'd just say his stop drop and roll skills are lacking these days, and leave it at that.  
  
It's probable in this scenario that Tim would too -either that, or pull out more frustrated fanfare, to demand _how on the green ass earth did you forget where the fire extinguishers were, Jason-_ he would, if he could speak past the fucking _smoke inhalation._  
  
They are, ironically, in a burning building. Jason swears the universe is determined to show him up at any poetically just chance he leaves open, like a pebble shifting inside a boot too loosely tied- but that's a musing for another time.  
  
When his laces aren't on _fire._  
  
"Grab the cat!" Tim manages, all but throwing said cat across the flames into Jason's hold. It blinks up at its new handler, around at the mostly empty room, and immediately claws to get back to Tim, scratching into the sleeves of his jacket with an unexpected malice.   
  
"Yeah, me too buddy," Jason mutters and- goddammit.  
  
Cat goes into his jacket, shielded for now from the most immediate danger, and Tim motions for Jason to head toward the fire escape, typing rapidly at his holo-glove. "That's everyone, let's scram before the building comes down."  
  
"It's an floor fire, not an _inferno_ ," Jason points out, shoving the window open. His lungs feel like sand pits. Like one giant, smoldering cigarette.  
  
"Doesn't mean it's contained," Tim shoots back, quickly picking his way across the room, trying to avoid the burning patches. "You know Jason, the real question is; how did a floor fire start inside a locked studio with every wire disconnected from the main system?"  
  
"Must've been chemical."  
  
"And if this studio is a mile away from-" He runs out of breath momentarily, shoving his shoulder into a large, overturned couch that blocks the way. "The drug ring you've been investigating for the better half of a month?"  
  
Jason pauses to cough -or rather, hack- harshly into his sleeve, sparing a glance through the open window as sirens wail around the corner, and a second to wonder why the hell Tim insists on getting involved with his weekend plans without fail. "Where are you- _ugh_ \- where the fuck are you going with this?"  
  
"I'm just saying-" His voice tapers off into a sharp gasp, swallowed up by an earsplitting crack- and Jason barely whips around before a portion of the ceiling hits the ground, taking Tim down with it.  
  
"Shit!" He abandons the window because -yeah, that's not good- and trips over his own boots (still flaming) to cross the room again, mask blackened momentarily by the dust that billows up from the debris. "Shit, _shit_  Tim-" In the back of his mind somewhere, he knows Tim is fine, presumably more stuck and pissed than anything; but it's the thought of it- the _thought_ of Tim hurt-  
  
It distresses him, in a way that little else does these days.  
  
"Fuck," He swears again with a bit less heat, scrambling to shove away the thought and bits of broken plaster, dig his fingers into the mess so he can heave up the biggest portion of ceiling and uncover the downed vigilante as quickly as possible. Luckily there was nothing piled in the room above them that could land on the two, though the risk is still there like a neon light glaring across the room as the flames climb.  
  
An arm claws out of the opening and Jason grabs it, struggling to lift the debris -a wooden beam came down too, _dammit_ \- but Tim manages to drag himself out within the minute, retching from the smoke again, but relatively unharmed.  
  
"That was fun," He gasps, and Jason almost throttles him.  
  
  
  
  
The Cat, thankfully, is another thing. Not another _Thing_ , but it's hungry and upset and a welcome distraction from their hectic morning.  
  
"I think we should keep him," Tim says eventually, after they've taken turns staring at the Cat, and each other, and back at the Cat. "Could be good for morale." It's as if he's talking about a campaign mascot.  
  
"By _we_ I'm assuming you're not in this picture," Jason cuts him a look, arms crossed. "And- good for morale? Maybe for pissing its way across my furniture, but not _morale,_ Tim. Why don't you take him?"  
  
The exasperated huff he receives is undeserved- completely and utterly undeserved.  
  
"I've already resigned myself to other important crap," Tim tells him, already gathering his bag to sling across his shoulders, which are damp with the drip of water from freshly doused hair. A droplet slides past the curve of his neck and Jason wants to- _goddammit._  
  
"Sure," He answers blankly, tearing his eyes away.  
  
"Hey, listen smokestacks," Tim waves at Jason, unamused but unaware. "Just a week, and I'll see if I can find someone to take him by then, okay? It's easy; food, water, sleep, the basics -you know, all the ones you struggle with." Jason is distracted from the veiled insult by Tim's hand sliding across his back as he passes, but even then it doesn't quite register because the contact carves out a path for the Thing to settle low in his spine.  
  
"Tim-" He turns, hands falling to rest on the kitchen counter, which probably isn't the best place to put a damn  _cat_ \- but he chooses to ignore the fact for now in favor of grappling briefly with his perpetual inner conflict.  
  
 _Ask him to stay._  
  
"Be careful tonight," He tries feebly. Thank god his tongue has turned to lead from the day's events.  
  
Tim's expression softens -at least, Jason thinks it does- and he pauses in the doorway with one hand holding the strap of his messenger bag. For a short, stupid moment, Jason equates the image to a symbol of domesticity; they hang out in the late night hours, see each other off more often than not, spend copious amounts of time at the other's apartment and they have a cat now, for fuck's _sake-_  
  
"I will," Tim reassures him, after the hesitation, mouth twitching up at the edges. "Swear on the cat."  
  
It breaks the moment, but Jason's suddenly grateful. He manages a small laugh, turning back to the animal in question, now lounging comfortably in his dish rack- and it takes a bit of effort not to watch Tim go when the door creaks shut.  
  
He doesn't notice the extra glance Tim casts back at him.


	3. Chapter 3

Something is in the air, and it's not rose petals or hope.  
  
Tim has written off the latter too many times to know why he still holds it so near and dear to his chest, but something there has been blooming lately in a sort of coincidential twist of fate; manifesting less in the shapes of flower blossoms, and more in hazy clouds of dull gray that billow up in his lungs like the evening sky rolling thunder through Gotham.  
  
That, or the smoke is still dragging its way through his bloodstream, slushing his thoughts around like the ice collecting along street gutters.  
  
He likes these neighborhoods- the ones with jutting row houses, however compact, however crowded toward the street, winded with dying vines and shaded by barren clusters of tree branches- they all have one thing in common. They hold people. They hold _Gotham's_ people.  
  
Tim hasn't considered himself one of them in some time now, too used to swinging fists, deactivating ticking bombs, calculating the distance between one rooftop and life- the other rooftop and heroic, inescapable sacrifice. He's no coward, but he's never been one to run risks, and that's where Jason blows his carefully structured code out of the water.  
  
Jason is a maniac.  
  
It's well accepted by now that he was just short of a _psychopath_ in the earlier days, a reputation he has yet to live down even now. Tim would do better- so much better, untangling his code from Jason's inability to follow it, getting out of harms way, or at least the general vicinity of the man. He flocks to danger and disease like a carrier pigeon, hell bent on sending the same message over, and over again.  
  
Tim runs his fingertips over metal rails, scuffing leaves while he recalls.  
  
An eye for an eye. It's always been Jason's mantra.  
  
Revenge trumps justice. Forgiveness is a power that some people don't deserve to receive again, too far past the line to come back from whatever it is they've done. The world is gray, but that doesn't mean there aren't absolutes- death and karma rolled into one of them, another being the fact that it's Jason's job to put himself between a body and a fire, between a child and a man with eager, itching hands, between a bullet cleaving the air and _Tim-_  
  
He runs out of rail and scuffed leaves much too quickly, coming to a crossroads.  
  
Tim knows he needs to stop. He needs to get out of this funk, wipe the gutter filth from his hands but he can't. Jason's pull is like an infection, and by the time he'd noticed his mind mutated and corrupted, it had been too late.  
  
But then Tim's always been one for seeing poetry where there's nothing but stark events and time and _life._  
  
He glances down at his feet.  
  
_Crossroads._  
  
The communicator crackles briefly in his ear. "You there?"  
  
_Rooftops._  
  
He turns, tugs a grapple line from his belt.  
  
"Yeah, I'm here."  
  
He really needs to figure out this thing with Jason.  
  
  
  
  
They run the ropes most of the remaining week, intercepting a few times and throwing words like knives in passing; though if Tim is honest with himself, they'd have to be more reminiscent of shields. It's a thought he doesn't care to entertain for long.  
  
His crossings with Jason are... unusual, to say the least. From the start, and the hostility, to now- well, the distinction is almost laughable when Jason falls out of the sky overhead.  
  
"Watch it!" Tim shouts, seizing his line tighter and gripping the up-end of a ridiculously accessorized boot with the other arm. "Hood, what the fuck!"  
  
He throws them onto a nearby school building, heedless of the fact that several students immediately begin screaming and whipping out their phones in the general vicinity, leaping from tables and the jutting staircase box. Jason, the fool, doesn't _roll_ like someone with years of above-average coordination -or basic motor skills, but Tim can't get any more alarmed at this point- and instead _skids_ halfway across the damn roof by the time Tim is rearing back to look for an enemy.  
  
"Get inside!" He yells at the kids, ripping his hand across their line of sight in the universal _'stay back!'_ gesture. A few more bodies hit the roof at rolls, tucking under only to push up on steady, booted feet that Tim recognizes instantly- their silver blue crests don't quite give off the subtle impression.  
  
There's a grunt and matching stumble to his right, and Tim hisses in that direction. "Why is the GCPD on you?"  
  
"They aren't GCPD," Jason's hand lands on his shoulder with a heavy thump. "And they're not just after me."  
  
Tim makes the connection amidst a panicking background and the feeling of Jason's grip wrapping all the way around his shoulder; that these must be the dirty cops from the case he's working- the dirty cops from the case he's working with crates full of experimental _drugs_ , the one with the  _mob_ behind every step of it, the one he didn't want Tim's help with, oh _that one-_  
  
Jason is definitely grinning as Tim reaches for his bo staff, snapping it out with a quiet noise of exasperation. "It's almost like you want my attention or something."  
  
It's a joke, but Jason's laugh is low. "Who says I don't?"  
  
The return doesn't quite hit him until he's got two legs wrapped around some hopped up cop's shoulders, struggling to twist him to the ground with the way he's flailing.  
  
"Are you serious?" Tim asks, jabbing his staff onto the man's head half-heartedly. He'll pass out in a second.  
  
"About what, Princess?" Jason calls back from the middle of kicking out somebody's kneecap. Tim cuts him a disapproving look at the scream that follows, momentarily distracted. "Oh, come on, it's not like I'm going for _necks_ today."  
  
Tim huffs and jerks his victim toward a concrete wall. "You're not even trying."  
  
Jason's fist crushes another nose in a spray of red. "My case," Another crack accompanies the reminder. "My rules, baby."  
  
_Baby,_ Tim repeats to himself, rolling the word around. He finally gets tired of watching his guy's face turn purple and tips off of him with open palms, wrapping a calf around his neck to bring him down, and effectively throwing him into the gravel with a loud crunch. Jason's still in the thick of it while he straightens and dusts off, but Tim makes no move to help.  
  
It's after another few minutes and wailing sirens later that he speaks, arms crossed while a blood-smattered Jason trips over bodies; they're not dead, but they won't be dealing to addicts and misguided twelve year olds anytime soon, so there's that.  
  
"Baby," He repeats out loud. Jason's walk turns into something smoother that Tim's not sure he likes.  
  
"Got a problem, sweetheart?"  
  
Tim leans back against the wall and contemplates passively. "No, Hood, I think _you_ have a problem. But where do I start; you trying to defend your oversized ego by taking these guys on in front of me, or the fact that you think sugaring me up before asking for help will work- I mean, that, or just some deep seated masculinity issues while you happen to blow off steam in my direction, you tell me." He nearly makes a face after the observation. So _that_ just came out of his mouth.  
  
To his credit, Jason doesn't miss a beat in closing the rest of the distance between them, helmet gleaming with more than just polish when he props an arm against the wall and stares him down. The effect is kind of lost when he's proving the point and Tim can't see his eyes, but the younger levels a look back on principle.  
  
Jason's jacket meows.  
  
Tim's glances down to it, and back up at him with an unimpressed expression quickly crawling over his face. "Jason."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Please don't tell me you brought the cat on patrol."  
  
He doesn't speak for a long minute, and when he does, it's halting. "....Not... _that_ cat."  
  
"I can't believe you," Tim tells him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyy I put a note at the beginning chapter but basically if this one seems.. out of tone?? it's because I wanted to switch gears a bit and focus less on dramatic unnecessary existential angst, more on these two bantering and being idiots.. I'm a simple guy..
> 
> anyway, if that messes with the story then idc. I liked writing this chapter better and it felt less forced so it's all good lol

"I can't take care of a cat, Tim."  
  
It's a statement fully realized after an hour of slipping and chasing the new addition around Jason's apartment while the television blares and the stovetop pot boils over with an acrid smell. His fire alarm is disabled already thanks to a pile of burnt-ended cigarettes strewn around the space after weeks of accumulation, and Jason thinks vaguely he should take the rare opportunity to be grateful for his bad habits- but soap sprays into his face again and he swears instead.  
  
"What gives you that idea?" Tim grinds his teeth back, scrubbing at the animal in his lap while he sits fully submerged in a cracked tub of bubbles. "Really, I have to know- hold him _still,_ moron, he's not gonna stay put on his own." A litany of angry yowls greets the efforts as Jason gets ahold of the black cat again, keeping him firmly in place on his lap while Tim reaches to scrub that one too. "Besides, I thought you liked animals."  
  
"I'm a dog person."  
  
Tim laughs abruptly and shoves at his leg. Jason returns the motion in scrubbing a handful of fur and slimy dollar-store shampoo into his hair.  
  
After the ensuing wrestle and second chase after the cats when they slip past the two sloshing around in gross bathwater, both manage to pull themselves together enough to clean up and get everything mostly dry, leaving a trail of towels through the bathroom hall to Jason's thick carpeted, hoarder's paradise living room.  
  
Needless to say, the cats love it there.  
  
"I still think you're ridiculous," Tim says, once they've both collapsed onto the nearest surface and given up cooking to order takeout. "Insisting you have no time for a pet and then turning right around to find another one."  
  
Jason makes a face from his seat on the counter. "Okay, so maybe I felt like stepping in after watching some wasted asshole kick him around an empty lot. Guess I'm soft like that, _your honor."_  
  
Tim graces him with an eye roll, but he's grinning again. "The defendant's point is admissible- this time."  
  
Jason's mouth tugs up at the edges. "Thought this was a bench trial." He kicks his socked feet up onto the wooden table beside Tim's waist. "I'm not complaining if you want to acquit me here and now, though."  
  
His smile goes smug and a bit- intense. "Wouldn't you like that."  
  
Jason holds their gaze, rolling the words over in his head as he silently mourns the last of his luck in avoiding -or rather, ignoring- the Thing during this past week. Something unpleasant and frustrating knots in his gut just before the door rings.  
  
Saved by the bell, he thinks, eyes still on Tim as the cats scatter with the sound. "Court adjourned?"  
  
Tim shakes his head through another half-laugh. "Yeah. Court adjourned."  
  
They waste another hour scarfing down pizza like it's the only food on earth- and for them, it might be. Jason can't remember the last time he's adhered to a suitable crime-fighting diet, but this isn't it and nobody has a handbook on these things anyway.  
  
It doesn't matter in the end. The week's been slow by Gotham standards, and he figures they deserve a break sometimes. Especially Jason, who's still walking off that damn roll onto a concrete roof, all for the sake of heroism- or something like that. His eyes start to droop as he collapses into the couch and groans like he'll never move again.  
  
Tim follows suit, settling on the floor to lean against the glass coffee table. "Think we should name these little guys? I want to call the first one _Sparky_."  
  
"You always did have a thing for irony."  
  
Tim shrugs and shifts further back, coaxing their new addition onto his chest and scratching all but tattered ears with a carefulness Jason shouldn't be surprised at.Tim's been meaner and rougher around the edges for years now, but some things will always be the same. He wonders vaguely if Tim's gentleness in relation to the state of the cat is supposed to mean something.  
  
But again, he's never been the one chasing metaphors in this screwed version of a friendship. He leaves that to Mr. Booksmarts over there.  
  
"Hey, out of Smokey? _Flame?_ I think Sparky is the least convicting. We didn't _start_ the fire."  
  
"Nah, it was always burning," Jason responds almost automatically, kicking his boots up next to Tim. "Since the world's been turning."  
  
Tim fails at hiding his grin, turning it into a toothy lip bite that isn't much better. Not much better at all.   
  
Jason mourns his luck in ignoring the Thing for a few days while Tim scratches at a tawny ear and glances up at him. "That's a good one. You tell it at parties?"  
  
He digs harder at his shoulder by way of stalling. "Nobody to listen."  
  
It's the wrong thing to say. Tim goes quiet for a long time, slipping further against the glass top and petting the cat on his chest, hands slim but with strong fingers that Jason briefly imagines sliding through his hair. It's happened at some point, he thinks- maybe between a haze of sleepless cases or a retrieval gone wrong but- he suddenly can't remember the feeling. He _wants_ to remember that feeling.  
  
"So this one's Sparky," Tim says, breaking his single minded focus. "What about yours?"  
  
Jason eyes the second, full black cat where it curls around Tim's knee. "Batman."  
  
 _"Jason."_  
  
"I don't name things," He cuts back. "I'll get attached."  
  
Tim's eyes drop like he's realizing something and that- _that_ is never a good look on him, the one that spirals into deep, deep thought and shuts him down from the rest of the world. Jason's seen that face enough to be wary of it, when maybe he should be wary of the _fact_ that he's seen that face enough to be wary of it- or maybe something bigger, like how close Tim's shoulder is to his knee right now-  
  
"Things die," He manages, tearing his thoughts away. "Things die, Tim."  
  
The man looks up again with something like conflict buried in his eyes, and Jason has to wonder when it was exactly that he stopped wearing emotions on his sleeve. They're older, adaptable, but it still shouldn't be like this; they shouldn't have the pull or the energy to keep fighting ideals.  
  
"That doesn't make caring about them worthless," Tim says, quieter. "Death isn't always an end."  
  
Jason musters a scoff, slumping deeper into the couch cushions while he digs at his shoulder with a new determination. "Low blow."  
  
Tim lifts the corner of his mouth at the concession, as if they're on the same page now- at least the same chapter. Not a new one, not yet.  
  
"Besides," Tim says. "I think they like it here. They deserve someone that'll treat them better."  
  
Jason's unsure at this point whether they've abandoned the ruse of talking about cats altogether, but he's not about to find out, and stays quiet about it. Tim's eyes go to his shoulder where he's _still_ kneading out the tension there, cursing fake cops and high school roofs alike at their courtesy of imparting what he's sure by now is a lifetime of aches and pains. "Still hurts?"  
  
"Like a motherfucker," Jason answers, groaning as he tips his head back onto the couch, and closes his eyes.  
  
"Drama queen," Tim mutters, but there's a rustling of fabric and then footsteps and Jason almost goes for his glock at the weight sinking next to him. "Move."  
  
He knows better than to protest, and only gives another grunt in shifting forward, wincing as Tim probes and works at the offending shoulder. "You're good at that."  
  
"I'm good at a lot of things," Tim replies, like stating a fact. Jason grins. "Things you aren't, mostly. Taking care of myself is the big one but also things like keeping the takeout to a minimum, meeting _somebody_ on time for joint cases, remembering how to roll across a roof even with something in my jacket like, say, a cat-"  
  
"God, you're an infomercial," Jason rolls his eyes and stops when Tim does something to his back that _hurts._  
  
"I prefer Renaissance man," Tim says, smirking.  
  
Jason kicks him off the couch. They're both breaking into laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhhhhhhhhh I can't believe ppl are still reading this but HI.. WELCOME... where do you all come from...

This thing with Jason gets worse, and worse and worse.  
  
Tim knows somewhere in his mind that he's making a deal out of it, something out of nothing, but it's hard to feel right about liking Jason's company when memories drop like bombs at every interaction; a knife at his throat while Jason's gaze goes contemplative, a fist around his neck while Jason laughs at something Tim says. Feeling a weighty hatred layered behind years of rebuilding and moving on.  
  
The juxtaposition is nearly dizzying. Maybe it's why Tim's thoughts swing from one extreme to the next with Jason.  
  
Case in point; screaming him out on top of a soaked warehouse, watching a dock go up in sizzling flames beside them, half tempted to throw Jason into the fire himself. The urge crawls over him like a sharp reminder that Jason is volatile, Jason is dangerous, Jason is a lesson he hasn't learned and a mistake he continues to make, Jason, Jason, _Jason._  
  
They call it quits as the police arrive, and Tim's throat aches from smoke inhalation and going in ethic-shaped circles with the man, head throbbing with the sound of his unmasked voice grating harsh enough to break skin. They've always walked a thin line, and Tim manages to forget between the looks and the jokes and the company that shouldn't be easy but _is._  
  
They end up at Jason's place anyway, sopping wet, tripping over each other in the process of stripping and squabbling for the shower. Tim wonders briefly how they do this, how it always comes back to this when all's said and done- but it's not a welcome crisis to be having while Jason's shirtless, and he goes back to shoving the door shut on the older man's half-hearted threats.  
  
"-hear me, _kiddo_ I'm going to kick your scrawny ass spine through the shower tile I swear to _fuck-"_  
  
"Take me out first," Tim shouts back, slamming his shoulder against wood to budge it. "Five stars or I walk!"  
  
And so it goes. Jason ends up with a black eye from the doorknob, and Tim with a nasty bruise spanning his bicep, but they only exchange the dirtiest of looks before parting ways that night, and forget about it soon after.  
  
Jason shows up at his place later in the week, though, and Tim's not so sure either did when they're sitting at a fancy table discussing what lawyer is better dressed across the restaurant.  
  
(Jason insists Tim earns the title, regardless of the fact that he'd never finished law school.)  
  
And it gets worse after _that_. So _much_ worse.  
  
Crime picks up, Jason disappears for two weeks. Tim, fool that he is, swings by the apartment every morning to check, but by the fourth day decides there's nothing to be done, and moves the cats to his new safehouse in the same hour. They promptly become disgruntled and anxious, clawing up his already crappy furniture in between wrecking the bed and meowing loud enough that Tim's ears hurt.  
  
"Get used to it," He tells them at some point, curled around the two in the attempt to soothe them all. His legs are aching under several new bandages, and he's sure he won't move for two days. "He'll be back sometime. Always is."  
  
Tim thinks about the seven meetings he has tomorrow, and thunks his skull into the headboard which houses five post it notes Jason left on the fridge.  
  
His life becomes about numbers for those two weeks, then another nine days when Jason still doesn't turn up. He crunches company expenses, schedules conferences with Tam across a diner booth, scribbling math in the margins of his napkin. How much longer are the DNA results going to take for this case? How many days will four-fifths a bag of cat food last? When will Jason come crashing through his window again?  
  
Thinking so much can't be healthy, and Tam finally voices as much when she notices him start doodling whiskers and tails on his long division notes.  
  
"Tim, what the fuck. What's eating you lately?"  
  
He lets the pen slip out of his fingers and sighs, propping a fist against his cheek. "Nobody."  
  
She arches a sculpted brow and he silently curses at himself. "-Nothing. Nothing's eating at me. Why?"  
  
"Right," Her skepticism is obvious, but Tim remains only a little stung at the lack of faith. "So this nobody, is it that Kon guy who's always texting you during meetings, or do I have to kick someone else's ass?"  
  
Tim makes a face. "You didn't kick his ass."  
  
She twists her straw around. "Maybe not physically. But intellectually, Tim. _Emotionally._ "  
  
"You mean that time with the bike."  
  
"I mean that time with the bike."  
  
Tim rubs his palms against his eyes and groans through a smile, shaking his head. "It's not Kon," He concedes. "Someone else. Definitely someone else."  
  
And definitely someone harder to deal with. Tim leaves the diner with a new schedule and bar name entered in his phone, along with the stern warning that he'd better not skip out on the meet-up or Tam will have five new stacks of papers that just _happen_ to require his unforged signature. He makes a hasty exit when she finally releases him and calls back a thank you that earns an exasperated wave.  
  
He makes it four blocks before pausing in front of some ancient television corner shop, and nearly putting a hole through the glass when a familiar red helmet flashes across the news channel.  
  
Tim tips his head back and sighs, before digging his phone back out of his pocket.

 

 

 

"Wha' took you s'long?" Jason grunts, slumped between a couple dumpsters while the last of the thugs hit the ground. Tim huffs at the typicality of the question, but hauls him to his feet nonetheless, caught off guard when the man staggers his weight over him. "S'rry."  
  
"You're working a case," Tim answers, getting him upright and getting this straight. "And you need backup, so you get in front of a _camera?"_  
  
"Comm's out," He says. His movements are sluggish. "Broke i' while I kicked ass."  
  
Tim rolls his eyes at the response and loops Jason's arm around his neck, pointedly ignoring the rumble of laughter against his side.  
  
It's harder later, when Jason's feeling the effects of a dozen stitches to his calf and a larger percentage of alcohol to his blood, draped across Tim where he's leaned back against the arm of the couch. They'd gotten that way when Jason said something about forgetting they had cats, and Tim needed to slump back on lumpy pillows and take a minute to process the idiocy- but Jason had taken it as an invitation and fallen back against him.   
  
With all the air knocked from his lungs Tim hadn't been able to protest, and now here they are; both cats crawling curiously over the two, purring and kneading at the rough blanket Jason had drawn up to his chest.  
  
"They miss me?" He mumbles, fingers uncoordinated in scratching behind Sparky's ears.  
  
Tim fights a smile at the sight- Jason, big and clumsy with something so small and attention-demanding. "Maybe."  
  
"Oh," He says, tipping his head back to Tim's sternum, trying to fix his eyes on the younger. "'cause I missed them."  
  
"I think they were a little annoyed when you up and dusted." He props his elbow on the couch arm, combing through his own hair while Jason's tickles his neck. He's still dirty and smells like dumpster and is, objectively, gross- but he's not bleeding and he's not in pain and that seems to be enough. "Cats form attachments too, you know."  
  
"I meant you, dumbass." Jason murmurs, nestling back against Tim's chest when he lowers his eyes and his chin, staring at some random point across the apartment floor. "'re you gonna be a dick about it or do I have t'apologize?"  
  
The transparency catches him off guard, but Tim remembers the empty bottles on their counter and lets it slide. Jason's not going to remember much of this anyway, so he shifts to get a little more comfortable and twists a lock of hair in his fingers, absent while he processes the change. "I'm gonna be a dick about it," He finally decides. "And you're still gonna have to apologize. I can't believe I missed another night out to make sure you didn't die again."  
  
"Can't tell if tha's sarcasm."  
  
"It is," He answers, and drops his hand to Jason's head, smoothing his bangs out of his eyes and watching them fall closed. "It's always sarcasm."  
  
"Hey Tim," Jason reaches back blindly to find his shoulder, and ends up patting his head twice, heavy and exhaustion worn. "Thanks."  
  
He lets out a long breath, and shuts his eyes on the quiet response.  
  



End file.
